


Rose

by JoansGlove



Series: Within These Walls [6]
Category: Wentworth (TV)
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-26
Updated: 2020-10-26
Packaged: 2021-03-08 19:09:14
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 439
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27211732
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JoansGlove/pseuds/JoansGlove
Summary: It's hallowe'en season again - a bitter-sweet tale to prick your hearts
Series: Within These Walls [6]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1417036
Kudos: 8
Collections: Spooky Tales From Wentworth





	Rose

She always remembers the tale of the Rose. Whenever someone died, her Tatuś would pull out the heavy old book, translated from the Grimm brothers’ native German, and read the tale aloud; telling them that now this person was free and happy in heaven, and that no-one should cry anymore. Knowing this makes Bea’s memorial just perfect. Marge is an old woman now and her thoughts often turn to the question of mortality; and she likes to sit and look at the shrine as she thinks about how Bea is up there with Debbie and how they’re looking out for everyone down here.

She’s in the yard now, sitting in the sun, thinking about the red roses she sent to her parents’ funeral. The prison wouldn’t let her go. No-one believed that she hadn’t done it, that she’d found the knife on the boarding house landing, or that she was only bloody from hugging their lifeless bodies. No-one believed a stupid Polish girl with no English. It’s too late to worry what people believe now though; she has nothing else – this is her home, these women are her family now.

The sun warms her back, easing the ache between her shoulders, but it does little for her nausea. If she doesn’t breathe too hard then she doesn’t feel so sick but it makes her giddy instead. Maybe some peppermint tea will calm her stomach – but in a minute – she’ll just rest here a bit longer.

When she feels well enough, Marge rises from her seat. She seems surprised that she has none of her usual aches and pains but she nods in understanding as she looks down at her corporeal shell. She’s transformed into the carefree teenager she once was and she crosses to Bea Smith’s shrine, stepping into a shaft of sunlight as it breaks through the clouds, and Marge shines as she touches the paper roses. When the ray fades so does Marge. She’s gone. She’s free.

If anyone cared to look, they’d have witnessed the briefest flash of pain crease Marge’s face, then serenity. But no-one noticed as she slipped away, her starving heart failing to drum another beat. Surrounded by dozens of women, she died alone. I don’t think she’d really mind though because our Marge believed that she would be reunited with her clan, and if that’s what she believed then we must believe that’s what happened to her.

Somewhere, the most beautiful red rose is blooming for Marge. I like to think that St. Peter is using it right now to mark the page in his book where it says _Marge Novak: Innocent_. 


End file.
